


Act 3

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:01:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Act 3

**Third Acts, Second Chances, and the Post-Cobra Experience: An Evening With Gabe Saporta**   
_\- by James Montgomery_

The saying goes that there are no second acts in American lives. This is, of course, completely untrue. A whole industry revolves around comeback kids and the public who either loves them or is waiting with bated breath for them to fall.

But are those true second acts, or the last scene of act one locked into a slow, painful repeat?

I ask Gabe Saporta this question while we wander the produce section of a grocery store in Phoenix, Arizona, hours before his new project, Act 3, is scheduled to perform. He stops and stares at me for a moment, balancing an orange in his palm.

"If you call this article something like 'Defying Fitzgerald,' I will punch you in the face," he says finally. "Don't be a pretentious ass, Montgomery. I need bananas."

I first interviewed Gabe almost 20 years ago. He hasn't changed a bit, except for all of the ways he has.  
**  
If Gabe Saporta really is on his own third act, as his band name declares, it's not out of defiance of good old F. Scott's aphorism. In fact, most fans from his earlier incarnations would probably be surprised to find that he even recognizes the reference. His public personas over the years have not exactly had a fondness for literature.

Gabe Saporta the First fronted Midtown, an emo-pop group at the very turn of the century that never quite broke through to the big time. His second act was Cobra Starship, the pop-punk-dance mishmash of the aughts and tens that produced such poppy, uptempo singles as "Snakes on a Plane," "Good Girls Go Bad," and "There's No Crying On The Dance Floor (Spank It)." The group prided itself on a certain air of carefree self-indulgence, and declared their mission statement to be having a good time and not taking life too seriously, a framework that Saporta stands by in retrospect.

"I don't know if people remember what it was like then," he says in the dressing room at Phoenix's Red Room before the Act 3 show. "Second Bush administration, the first couple years of Obama, we're talking the big recession, the wars, all that shit. Everybody was majorly bummed. Or in denial. A lot of shit was going down, and our whole thing in Cobra was that we were going to provide a break from that. Stop worrying for a while and have a good time. Drink. Dance. Fuck around. Why would I look back and change my mind about that? People need fun as much as they need all the other shit."

Saporta's pre-show ritual now involves an assortment of fruit and a bottle of water infused with electrolytes and time-release organic stimulants. In the Cobra days, it was vodka and Red Bull.

"Well, I couldn't very well preach _relax, get fucked up, and don't worry_ if I was sober all the time," he points out, dropping an orange slice into his water and shaking them up energetically. "One thing I've always tried for, pretty consistently, is not to be a hypocrite. When I was an overly earnest emo kid, I ate vegan and worried a lot about global warming. When I was a hedonistic nihilist, I drank a lot and blew out my voice on purpose. It's bullshit to go out there all _do as I say, not as I do_. Kids can see through that. Everybody can see through that."

I ask him if the change from hedonistic nihilism coincided with his notorious-at-the-time skiing accident following the 2011 VMAs.

"Oh, no, man," he says, sipping his water and biting into another orange slice. "No, no, that was when I broke my hip, but that was just like one limb, that didn't change my mind about anything. Put this in there, though--don't drink and ski, guys, breaking your hip sucks a _lot_."

The change in worldview came about nine months later, according to Saporta, following Cobra Starship's dissolution and his less-publicized but personally more serious arrest for drunk driving.

"That one was definitely different," he says with a nod, worrying the bottle between his hands. There's still an obvious scar on his left wrist from the surgeries following the accident. "I could've killed myself. I could've killed other people--in fact, I was _supposed_ to have other people in the car with me that night. I was supposed to have picked up my friend Bill Beckett, but I forgot, because I was wasted. And when I woke up in the hospital, he and some of my other friends all ripped me a new one and kinda bullied me into realizing shit had to change."

I observe that Saporta has never struck me as someone who responds well to bullying.

"Well, no," he laughs, "the bullying process took about six months. They kept me pretty much under house arrest the whole time, at Wentz's place in LA. They basically brainwashed me, actually, looking back. Even got my dad in on it. My friends are kind of assholes. But one day I woke up and went yeah, okay, I'm still alive and that's pretty cool. Undo the handcuffs, guys, I promise I'll be good."

He peels a banana and takes a slow, deliberately obscene bite, grinning as he chews.

"That's literal, the handcuffs thing," he adds. "No shit, they used restraints."  
**  
The breakup of Cobra Starship, at the time, was uniformly and fiercely presented as 100% amicable. Surely by now, though, enough years have passed for the dirt to come out?

"Jesus, this question." Saporta rolls his eyes and throws the banana peel at me. "There is no dirt, man. I promise. There is nothing. We looked at each other one day and went we're tired, we've got other stuff we want to do, and oh yeah, Nate and Gabe are scary alcoholics. We're not having fun, our contract is fulfilled, and we've all got nice fat retirement plans. So we stopped."

He takes another thoughtful sip. "And Victoria was pretty done with the whole music thing anyway," he adds. "She wanted to go design her shoes. Hey, by the way, can you put a plug in there for her shoe line? I promised her I would. They are fabulous and I would totally wear them if I could walk in heels without falling down." (Victoria Asher, former keytarist of Cobra Starship, now owns and designs the Ashthetique label. Consider it plugged.)

Saporta insists that the former Cobras are all still close. "We get together at least once a year, for our Cobra-versary," he says. "And if we're in the same place at other times, we hang out. I go check out their new projects, I tell women to buy Victoria's shoes. I'm godfather to Ryland [Blackington, Cobra guitarist]'s third kid. Not the first or second one, because Ryland is an asshole, but hey, I made the cut eventually."

He glances at the clock and moves over to the garment bag hanging on a rack in the corner. "I gotta get dressed. Avert your eyes." His movements when walking reveal the hint of the old injuries from the skiing accident and the car crash, a slight hitch in his steps. Still, his commitment to physical therapy went better than his recovery from vocal surgery in 2009, as alluded to previously.

Once my eyes are averted, I ask about that, how his voice is different now than in the last few years of Cobra's run, when he was forcing his singing through damaged pipeways.

"Well, I've had a couple years off to recover," he says, "and when I decided I wanted to get back into singing I went to Dr. Alice Besmerck in LA--that's another plug, I should've charged for this shit--and she used me as a lab monkey for a couple new procedures. I'll never sound like I did. But it's better, and I finally kind of clued in to the fact that there are different styles, you know? You can get across the point of a song without reaching for high notes. You know what clued me in, actually? It's weird, during my wilderness years I randomly saw some documentary on Willie Nelson. He didn't really _sing_ so much as he chanted melodically while playing the guitar. And I thought, holy fuck, I can totally do that."

He comes back into my line of sight wearing a white linen suit and carrying a fedora in one hand and a walking stick in the other. "Only I dress better than Willie Nelson, thank you very much."  
**  
Saporta's reference to "wilderness years" is somewhat misleading. He didn't vanish off the grid entirely, except for the six months post-accident which have now been revealed as some sort of bondage situation with Pete Wentz. He amassed a number of producing credits in the years following Cobra Starship's breakup, including tracks for The Academy Is... and My Chemical Romance, and an album by Blackington and Cobra Starship bass player Alex Suarez's duo group This Is Ivy League. He stopped producing after a few years, though, which he attributes simply to the fact that his heart wasn't in it.

"When I'm making music, I like to be _making_ music," he explains with a shrug. "Pushing buttons on the control board is important, it needs to happen, but it's not what I enjoy. Also I was told by reliable sources that I'm a complete dick when I'm doing it and I make people cry. Nobody plays music very well when they're crying, and you can't sing at all. So I stopped that."

It seems obvious that his most noteworthy project in those years would be his book, _I Came Here To Make You Dance Tonight_ , winner of several awards for memoir when it was released in 2014. When asked about it, though, Saporta is instantly dismissive.

"Oh, the book," he says, frowning. "I don't really want to talk about the book. That wasn't really much of anything, you know? Nobody was really interested in that. I wrote it, I put it out there, I'm not sorry I did, but that's not what people want from me. They wanted me putting on a show and being a dick, or they at least want me making songs that they can sing along to and not worry for a little while, they don't want to read about the immigrant experience or the pop-star experience or whatever. I should've known that in the first place, but I definitely learned it from putting out the book."

I point out that it did in fact win several awards, and that I personally found it an extremely moving, thought-provoking read.

"You're a nice guy, J. Mont," he says, shaking his head and smiling as he adjusts the fedora in front of a mirror. "I guess, yeah, the people who put out memoir awards were interested? But that wasn't really who I had in mind. I don't know who I had in mind. I wrote it cause I felt like I had something to say, but in retrospect I probably should've kept my mouth shut. That's always been my problem. I feel like I've got something to say, but does anybody want to hear it? I've never really been able to figure out how to tell that part."

A knock comes on the dressing-room door and Saporta calls "Enter!" I go to open it, revealing the guitar player for the night.

Act 3 operates on what Saporta describes as a "travelling road show" approach to its lineup. Saporta himself is the constant, singer and frontman. The drum kit is usually filled by Nate Novarro, his old friend from Cobra Starship, but guitar, bass, and occasionally rhythm guitar and keyboards are filled on a gig-to-gig basis. Typically, whichever of his friends are free step in, or their friends that they point in his direction.

Tonight's guitarist is Mike Carden, formerly of The Academy is..., now a successful studio musician out of Los Angeles. He and I go way back. After we finish saying hello, he looks over at the mirror and laughs.

"You look like Colonel Sanders, man."

"I look stylish," Saporta corrects, waving the walking stick at him. "I look fantastic. What do you want?"

"Are we going to get a set list, or are you going to wing it?"

"Didn't I give you one already?"

"Would I be here asking if you did?"

"Don't be mean to me, Mikey, I'm an old man with a history of head injuries." Carden rolls his eyes and the two of us share a meaningful look as Saporta finds the set list. "I'll send it to all of you guys. Is everyone else here and, like, wearing pants?"

"Everybody is present, clothed, and accounted for," Carden confirms, rolling his eyes again and leaving the room. Saporta moves back to the mirror and studies himself for a moment, frowning anxiously.

"Do I really look like Colonel Sanders?"

I assure him that I think he looks very elegant.

"Thanks, man," he says, nodding. "Yeah. What the fuck does he know, anyway?"  
**  
There's no fancy set-up for Act 3, no elaborate backdrop or lighting. They perform on a bare stage.

Saporta brings a stool out with him from stage left when he comes out alone under a single spotlight. He grins and places the stool next to the main mic, and waves to the audience, even though the Red Room is small enough that there's no way anyone's attention is on anything but him.

"Hi," he says, sitting down on the stool. "Welcome. Nice to be here. I'm Gabe Saporta, and tonight I'm going to play some songs with my friends. And I hope you enjoy them. If you do, you can consider yourselves my friends, too. If you don't, well, at least we're starting the show during happy hour, so it's not a total waste, right?"

There's polite laughter and Saporta grins, kicking his feet slowly against the legs of the stool.

"I know--well. I don't _know_ , but I bet some of you are here because you remember my old band, Cobra Starship." There's a smattering of applause and a few cheers. "Yeah! Hell yeah. I _doubt_ any of you are here because you remember my first band, Midtown, but if you are, then you are old as shit and I love you and I will buy you a drink after the show." More laughter, and Saporta slides off the stool again, beginning to pace a slow arc across the stage.

It's always an interesting thing to watch a good frontman at work. In my opinion, it's even more interesting to watch a _great_ frontman working a crowd cold, feeding on the energy and tailoring himself to it precisely. To my eye, that's exactly what Saporta is doing in this club on a Thursday night in Phoenix.

"Now, you're not gonna see Midtown tonight, and you're not gonna see Cobra. This is Act 3, it's different." There are a few exaggerated boos, and Saporta wags a finger at them, shaking his head. "Now, don't cry, just fucking roll with it. I'm going to introduce my friends in a minute, and we're going to play for you, but first I need to tell you a little story.

"There's a Hebrew saying. You all probably know it, it's one of the big ones. L'chaim. To life. And that's kind of what my whole thing is, with Act 3; it's about enjoying life. I'm not telling people not to take things seriously, like I did with Cobra. Who the fuck am I to tell any of you what to do? Take shit seriously if you want to. But enjoy it. We all only go around once. It should be fun."

He glances over at stage left and gestures, and the rest of the musicians come out, settling themselves and their instruments in their places.

"I want all of you," Saporta says, looking out at the audience again. "All of you just close your eyes, tilt your head back, take a deep breath, and let it go. Let everything go. And ask yourself, am I glad to be alive, and here tonight?" There's a smattering of cheers, and Saporta shakes his head. "No, no, I didn't say yell about it. Just ask yourself, and breathe. We'll get to the yelling in a minute." He pauses, seeming to consider for a moment, then leans in close to the mic and adds, "That's what she said."

More laughter, and Saporta grins, broad and bright, and this is a magic thing, watching him dancing with his audience. It's a gift.

"Tonight on guitar, we've got my old friend Santi, Mike Carden. On drums, my good, good friend Nate Novarro. On bass, we've got Phoenix's own Bobby Braden, who I don't know very well but who comes very highly recommended to me given that he's only nineteen. Don't embarrass us old guys too much, okay, Bobby?" The bass player says something the mic doesn't catch, and Saporta laughs, taking his fedora off and running his hand through his hair. "We were supposed to have the world debut of Miss Genevieve Beckett on keyboards, but apparently it's a school night and her old man is kind of a jerk. I can say that about him, she can't. Next time, though. Next show that's on a weekend."

He glances off to the side of the stage and his smile gets wider, and slightly more evil. "You guys should know that I did _ask_ one of my other old friends to play bass with us tonight, but he's a loser who, quote, doesn't play no more, unquote, so he's teching instead. That means he'll hand us shit when we need it and, in theory, tune the guitars, unless he doesn't do _that_ no more, either. Come out here and say hi, Petey, and bring me a fucking water."

Pete Wentz steps out from stage left, waves to the crowd, and brings Saporta a water bottle, which Saporta opens and promptly splashes in Wentz's face. [Note- see my post-show interview with my old friend Pete Wentz here.]

"L'chaim, everybody." He takes a drink from the bottle and then sets it aside and claps his hands. "Okay, okay, stop being glad you're alive already and look up here. We're going to play you some songs. Give me a drumbeat."

The saying is that there are no second acts in American lives. But standing in the back of a crowded room in Arizona, I think maybe that's only true if you want it to be. And if, like Gabe Saporta, you never played by the rules anyway, why would you start with that one?  



End file.
